


this is the way (we move)

by Callioope



Series: Rebelcaptain Appreciation Week [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Family, M/M, Rebelcaptain Week, Rebelcaptainprompts, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callioope/pseuds/Callioope
Summary: This is the way they run:They push each other, drag each other, carry each other. Bodhi waits and they sprint to him. All they ever have to do is find Bodhi, and he will carry them the rest of the way. They sprint through jungles, fat green leaves smacking them, blocking them, whipping them. They dash across sand, burning through the soles of their feet, sucking them back each step as they stumble in the shifting dunes. They scurry across rocky cliffs, slip and slide across icy plateaus, squelch through swamps, and it doesn’t matter the terrain, they just muddle through it with only one goal in mind: Bodhi’s ship. Home.#Vignettes of the post-Scarif Rogue One team. For the Rebelcaptain Week Tumblr prompt "Family."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Rebelcaptain Week prompt "Familiy. Title is from the song "The Way We Move" by Langhorne Slim & The Law. I was listening to Cassian's Spotify list on my drive to visit my sister this weekend and this whole fic has been stuck in my head.

This is the way they fly:

They soar up, a reverse meteor, TIE fighters eating their dust. Bodhi pulls back the control stick, and Kay-Tu does the hyperspace calculations, and the rest of them sit in the cabin, panting and sweating and shaking off adrenaline and praying this won’t be the time they get shot down.

Bodhi always pulls through. The ship lurches as they enter hyperspace, blue lines smearing across the window, and they all let out the same sigh of relief.

Sometimes they have time to spare, and it feels too leisurely, and they look over their shoulders waiting for an attack to come. Other times, Bodhi weaves them through the peripheral of battles they’re not intended for, skirting red and blue crossfire, as Jyn or Cassian wield the cannons, spitting out their own fire in return.

Cassian knows, objectively, that Bodhi is not the best pilot. He’s not the fastest or the wiliest and certainly not the most experienced. But Bodhi knows something no other pilot in the rebellion ever could (not even Luke Skywalker): he knows _them,_  their team, Rogue One, Cassian and Jyn and Chirrut and Baze and Kay-Tu. And Cassian would never trust anyone else at the controls.

Bodhi knows how long to wait for them and when to move and where to move to, how to find them and how to read between the lines of what they can’t say over the comm when they’re deep in Imperial territory and don’t have the time. Bodhi knows his way past checkpoints and can lie his way through inspections and can hack into Imperial frequencies.

So when they hurtle through the galaxy, bound for a destination that just might be their last, it’s Bodhi, and only Bodhi, that flies them.

Bodhi is the pilot.

#

This is the way they run:

They push each other, drag each other, carry each other. Bodhi waits and they sprint to him. All they ever have to do is find Bodhi, and he will carry them the rest of the way.

They sprint through jungles, fat green leaves smacking them, blocking them, whipping them. Gnarled tree roots trip them. Sweat trickles down their temples, necks, backs, and does nothing to cool them in the heavy, humid air.

They dash across sand, burning through the soles of their feet, sucking them back each step as they stumble in the shifting dunes. They scurry across rocky cliffs, slip and slide across icy plateaus, squelch through swamps, and it doesn’t matter the terrain, they just muddle through it with only one goal in mind: Bodhi’s ship. Home.

They dart through cities, weaving through vendors and surprised shoppers. Cities give them the best cover and cities betray them, too many people to trust and too many people to give them away. Chirrut melts into the crowd the easiest, and Baze sticks out the most.

And sometimes, sometimes in a city, they have to take shelter and wait for ‘troopers to pass. Sometimes they slip into an alley, and it’s a favorite tactic of both couples, a convenient tactic, a two-birds-with-one-stone tactic: to press a partner up against the wall, lovers in the heat of the moment, oblivious and invisible to the ‘troopers marching by.

One time, her favorite time, Jyn finds a door in an alley that’s held open with a brick. She sees the crack illuminated with pulsing red and purple light, the only light in the dark alley, and she leads Cassian to it wordlessly. When she pushes it open, music blares from within, beckoning. She flashes Cassian a quick grin before yanking him inside. His heart still hammers in his chest from the pursuit, but she takes him to the dance floor and they merge into it, are consumed by it, and when the ‘troopers enter the club, they take no notice of another couple grinding on the dance floor, sweating and panting as they sway to the beat.

The ‘troopers move along.

#

This is the way they fight:

Cassian and Baze pick off troopers from the side, aiming carefully around Jyn and Chirrut as they dance in the melee. Jyn’s baton and Chirrut’s staff keep rhythm as they drum the helmets and armor of ‘troopers. Baze’s cannon anchors them through the battle, steady, reliable, picking off squadrons of ‘troopers and AT-STs and tanks. Cassian watches, his own blaster a staccato melody above it all, as he keeps an eye out from above, spying parts of the field they can’t see, stopping dangers and threats his comrades never even know about.

Some battles they avoid, preferring to sneak and prowl, navigating their way through a facility with caution, with disguise, with wit. Some battles find them anyways, and they improvise, falling into their routine naturally, unconsciously.

Everyone has everyone’s backs, but even still, sometimes they take hits. Bruises and breaks, stabs and stings, someone cries out in pain and another cries out in alarm. Chirrut and Baze shift to fill a hole as Cassian runs to scoop up Jyn. Cassian provides cover for Chirrut to cross the battlefield back to Baze. Baze picks up the rear as Jyn hauls a limping Cassian back to the ship.

They fight for each other. They flit across the battlefield, keeping each other in their periphery. Breathless, cold, aching, Jyn swings her baton and thinks it might be the last swing she has, but she spots Chirrut twirling his staff ten yards over, and he’s sweating and wilting, too, and there’s just five ‘troopers left so she pushes harder.

Cassian squints through his rifle sight and rubs his eye and tries to steady his breathing. And some ‘trooper across the road pulls out a grenade and holds up his arm and he’s pointing towards the ship, towards _Bodhi_ , and Cassian’s breath pauses and he shoots and the ‘trooper falls.

Chirrut _feels_ the shift in the Force, Jyn’s light flickering, even before he hears her call out Cassian’s name. He feels her panic, fear, a deep helplessness and aching melancholy about the future. Remembering where Cassian’s blaster bolts originated from, Chirrut listens, notes the extra set of footprints, shouts to Baze, and points. Baze shoots. Jyn screams. And Cassian returns to the ship that night, only slightly burned from the cannon shot that took out his attacker.

#

This is the way they heal:

When they’re on base, they take their meals together. They laugh together. They drink together. Bodhi and Jyn help rebuild Kay-Tu. Chirrut shows Bodhi how to meditate, to find himself again, to put himself back together. Jyn makes Kay-Tu teach everyone Festian, and they surprise Cassian. Baze listens to Jyn when she feels like running, when everything is too much, when she’s afraid she’ll break Cassian’s heart, and like the proper big brother he is, Baze turns her right back around and tells her she’s being stupid and to go let herself be loved.

Bodhi still sometimes wakes screaming in the night. Cassian pulls some strings, and on Hoth, their rooms take up the same block. They trust each other, they learn each other’s passcodes, and when they hear Bodhi’s cries, they take turns. They wake him. They hold him. They remind him who he is (he is the pilot).

Chirrut, Baze, and Bodhi tell stories of Jedha. Bodhi talks about his childhood, his family. Chirrut talks about the temple. Baze talks about meeting Chirrut. They talk about the desert and the ruins and the rare rains, the feel of it on their cheeks, not like the rains of Eadu, that soak through to the bone, drowning rain, but a soft rain, a renewing rain. And after a while, the sharp dagger of pain that means Jedha wears away into something round that sits in their hearts but doesn’t burden them.

Sometimes their hearts are fine and it’s only their bodies that break. Jyn and Cassian stack up injuries like a scoreboard, displaying the results across their skin. The two of them become the most adept at healing.

Cassian takes Jyn’s hand, soothes her bruised and blistered and bleeding knuckles with an ointment from the medkit, blowing gentle kisses against her skin. Jyn takes the bandage tape between her lips, ripping it with her teeth, wrapping it carefully around the burn on Cassian’s arm. They set each other’s broken bones and pop dislocated shoulders back into place.

It is during one such healing session, when they take turns fixing each other, that Jyn blurts out, “Let’s get married.”

“What?” Cassian just looks at her, looks down at the bandage on his leg, already deep red. He tries put up his old spy mask, to cover up what she’s uncovered, but she’s already seen it. His vulnerability, his second-guessing, his worry. “How much blood have I lost?”

“You’re fine.” She smiles and traces her hand along the gauze circling her head. “I’ve already got a veil.”

Cassian snorts. “How much blood have _you_ lost?”

Frowning, she rethinks her tactics and takes his hand. “I’m serious.”

“People don’t marry guys like me,” he says softly, so the others lean in slightly to hear him. He sends out a glare and they shrug and pretend to do something else. He swears Bodhi rolls his eyes at him.

Jyn cups his cheek and turns his face back to hers. “It’s been more than three years, Cassian. I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”

“No…”

“So,” Jyn says, kissing his cheek and adopting her no-arguing tone. “That’s settled, then.”

Someone (Cassian thinks it’s Baze) mutters, “About kriffing time.”

#

This is the way they love:

Cassian and Jyn marry during the Endor celebration, high off the sweet joy distilled from oppressed hope and aged in a hard-fought rebellion for over twenty years. (That, and the wine the ewoks coyly serve them, stronger than anyone expects even after the furballs helped them take down Imperial troops and AT-STs.)

Cassian suspects he won’t remember much from the whirlwind of that night, so he savors as much of it as he can: the purple flowers Leia and the ewoks wove into Jyn’s hair and the way her eyes shine beneath them; the radiance of her smile as she laughs at him for stuttering (who would have thought he’d be so nervous?); her silent tears when he switches to Festian and proceeds with a speech so eloquent, Baze cries and clutches Chirrut’s hand.

The rest, all of the rest, will be flashes of celebration, mostly made up of dancing. He steps and spins and hops with Jyn as long as his leg allows, until Jyn ushers him to a chair and kisses his cheek and skips off to dance with Bodhi and Chirrut and even Baze. He watches, relishing this new feeling he believes is called “contentment.”

“Congratulations, Commander.”

Still grinning, he glances over his right shoulder and finds Draven seated next to him.

“General,” he nods, straightening a little in his chair.

“At ease,” Draven says, a wry, lopsided grin on his face. Cassian can count on two hands the number of smiles Draven has given him. But the Emperor is dead and Draven’s holding his own cup of ewok wine—Cassian can smell it from here—so he tempers down his shock.

“You did good,” Draven says. Cassian isn’t sure what he means. The mission, the rebellion, the war? And then his lifelong mentor nods in Jyn’s direction. “She’s a… she has an effect on people.”

Jyn is midway through pinning Han Solo’s right arm to a table, and when she wins the arm wrestle, Leia whoops and sticks out her hand in front of Lando, who reluctantly fills it with jingling credits. Before turning back to Draven, Cassian vaguely hears Han say, “Best outta seven.”

“Yep,” he says, still wearing his grin. He thinks he’ll install it as a permanent feature. “That’s my wife.”

Draven raises one eyebrow, and then says, “She suits you.”

Surprised, confused, speechless, Cassian looks down at his own cup, wondering if this untested beverage has hallucinatory effects.

“It’s difficult to lose a good agent,” Draven continues. Cassian sets his cup aside. “But she’s been good for you. And good for the rebellion.”

“Thank you, sir?” Cassian finally manages.

“Don’t thank me just yet.” Draven shifts in his chair. “We’ve intercepted a disturbing transmission regarding Naboo.”

Ah. Not a hallucination after all. “Sir, you may not have received it yet with the celebration, but—”

Draven puts up a hand. “I got your resignation letter, Andor.”

“Okay.” Cassian tries to relax again. “I can recommend…”

“Your team is the best.”

Now he can’t sit still, and he takes a swig of wine and stretches his aching leg. “We want to settle down. Start a family.”

“No one deserves that more than you,” Draven says quietly.

“But.” When Cassian looks away, out at the celebration, Jyn catches his eye. Her smile, the smile that matches that one he’d been sporting earlier, that one he thought he’d never take off, falters just slightly.

“The war isn’t over yet.”

Jyn starts pushing her way through the crowd. Don’t take her smile yet, Cassian thinks, even as he knows Draven is right. And of course it is Draven, on this night of the emperor’s death, who is still so focused on protecting the rebellion and the fledgling government incubating within it.

“Think about it. Meet me at command at ten hundred.”

Draven stands and vanishes into the crowd.

“What did Draven want?” Jyn asks, five seconds later, her feet tapping to the rhythm of the drums. She brings his cup to her lips and takes a gulp.

“Oh, to pay his respects and offer his deep, resounding confusion as to how a guy like me could ever win the coveted heart of Jyn Erso.”

He tries his grin on again and it still feels right, slanting up his left cheek.

“Ha!” Jyn says, leaning down and kissing him. She tastes so sweet, he follows her when she pulls away. He’s standing now, aching leg be damned, and he ignores a catcall he hears as he kisses Jyn a little deeper.

“Hey, hey,” she says, pushing him away slightly. “What did he really want?”

“That was it. Just congratulations,” Cassian says, and only for the briefest of moments does he wonder about the wisdom of letting someone get so close they can see through _his_ mask. “He has another mission for us.”

“Oh?” Jyn stares up at him, and plasters the smile on her face only for the benefit of those around them.

“Something about Naboo,” he says. “He wants us to meet him at ten hundred.”

“Oh.” Something shifts behind her eyes and her smile turns more playful. “That late? I thought we weren’t going to have time to celebrate.”

Cassian arches a brow. “I thought we were retiring.”

“Do you _want_ to retire?” Jyn asks, arching her brow right back at him.

He puts his hands on her waist, pulls her closer. “We had talked about starting a family.”

“And we will,” she says, draping her arms around his neck. “When the universe is right enough.”

He sighs and leans his forehead against hers and takes back what he questioned about the wisdom of letting someone get so close they can see him. “Gracias, mi amor.” He kisses her and savors her sweetness, again. “Te amo.”

She hums beneath his lips. “Te amo,” she says. Then she grins, her true grin, joyous and carefree. “Bailamos?”

He grins back. “I had a different sort of dancing in mind.”

Her smile grows. “Lead the way.”

#

Several hours later, when they’re all sitting around a shuttle, heading towards command, the pilot eyes him incredulously. “Isn’t this your _wedding night_?”

Cassian shrugs, looks around at his team, his family. “This is the way we move.”


End file.
